The Long Journey Home

The sun dipped below the distant horizon as the traveler with a ragged and tattered cloak of midnight black made his way toward the skeletal mining town of Andone. The last rays of the departing sun were at the traveler’s back, casting his shadow ahead of him on the dust-covered road leading on through the middle of the town.

Each step the traveler took churned up dirt, and with the desert wind coming from the east, he bowed his head, shielding his face from the dirt and sand blown toward him. He wore a dark, broadbrimmed hat low on his head, obscuring his features. His hands were beneath his tattered, poncho-like cloak, hidden from view. His leather boots were weatherworn and faded. They may have once been black, like his cloak, but they were even dirtier and more scuffed from his travels.

He had traveled far already, most of the journey made by foot. It was longer that way but quieter. No matter. His journey was nearly at its end.

As for the man himself, he stood tall and proud. His form was ambiguous beneath his cloak, and it was difficult to determine his age. Though he moved with purpose and grace, a scraggly, graying beard covered his face. His hair, tucked beneath his hat, was also graying and matted down by sweat.

His eyes were dark and roaming. Even though his head was bowed, his eyes peered out from under the brim of his hat, always sweeping from side to side, searching for movement. Not that there was much movement found presently in the mining town of Andone. The streets were barren—save for a lone tumbleweed carried along by the arid, desert wind.

The traveler ghosted through the empty streets, making his way toward the small building on the far side of town. He moved toward it with a single-minded focus, purposeful in his stride. It had a metal sign swinging over its porch. The traveler paused at the foot of the wooden steps leading up to the establishment’s porch.

He looked up at the sign, studying it for a moment. The Fiery Stallion. A callback to days long gone, the traveler assumed to himself before he walked up the three steps. He did not attempt to hide his progress, but he made very little noise as he approached the entrance of the establishment.

This was where he was told he would find his quarry. He wondered, briefly, if the information was good, or if it was all just a trap. He supposed it didn’t matter either way.

His hands were still beneath the folds of his tattered cloak, and he made no move to push open the door as he walked toward it. It slid open with a hiss at his approach. The dying of the light spilled into the darkened establishment as the traveler stood in its doorway.

It smelled of liquor and sweat and smoke inside. The room was full of tables and chairs scattered throughout. On the far wall, a bar of wood and steel stretched out along the length of the room. Behind it were glass shelves lined with bottles filled with brightly colored alcohol and spirits. The lighting in the establishment was dim, emitting faintly from flickering sconces on the walls.

The Fiery Stallion was not empty. Standing in the doorway, the traveler counted twelve patrons throughout the room. All eyes were on him as he stood there, judging and appraising this newcomer.

Six men were seated at a table opposite the bar, playing a game of cards. There was a respectable pot of money in the middle. Several sat smoking cigars, the noxious fumes filling the tavern air around them. Drinks were either in hand or on the table.

A woman stood behind the bar, a towel thrown over her shoulder, with another in hand as she dried an empty glass. The proprietress of The Fiery Stallion, the traveler assumed. There was no welcoming smile on her face, only stoniness that the traveler had seen in similar places—distant places oft not traveled.

Three women were seated along the bar on high stools, paused in mid-conversation amongst themselves. They were dressed in coveralls, and there was a hard quality to their appearances. The traveler assumed they worked the Mines of Andone. He saw that they were survivors, they had weathered the storms of life, and still, they stood.

The final two patrons were seated at another of the tables in the far corner of the room, facing the door. One of the two sat, reading from a small, leatherbound notebook with his glasses low on his nose. His feet were up on the table—a lounging pose that gave the appearance of him being relaxed. But the traveler could see the tenseness in his form. He was ready to move at a moment’s notice.

The other man’s features were hard and cruel. The traveler knew that look in the man’s eyes, for it was a look he saw in his own eyes whenever he looked in the mirror. He met eyes with the traveler. A curious expression of cold amusement played across his face before he subtly shifted his gaze to the men seated playing cards. The traveler was the only one who noticed. Then, the man resumed sharpening a wicked-looking, long-bladed knife, ignoring the traveler.

It wasn’t the only weapon in the room, the traveler observed keenly. He cast his gaze over the other patrons with a cursory glance. His face was impassive; he ignored their stares. He spotted several guns on hips—the men at the table playing cards were all armed. Not uncommon in places such as these—places where the Law was not often found.

Stepping out of the doorway, the traveler ambled over to the bartender, and the tavern’s patrons went back to their drinks. Regardless, the traveler still felt some of their eyes on him from time to time. No matter. The information was good. This was the place.

The bartender set down the glass she was cleaning on the countertop and made wary eye contact with the traveler. “What can I get you, stranger?” she asked as the traveler sat down at the bar, a few stools away from the women.

“Whiskey.” His voice was hoarse; it had a rasp to it. One of his hands came up from under the folds of his cloak and placed a high denomination bill on the bar top.

The bartender raised her eyebrow. “You expecting some change, stranger? I don’t charge that much for a single drink.”

A thin smile played across the traveler’s face before he shook his head slightly. “I’m looking for someone,” he told her. “Wondering if you could point me in the right direction.”

The raised eyebrow remained, and the woman snorted, unimpressed. She made no move to take the bill from the bar top. “Well, this is Andone, stranger. We don’t get many people passing through these parts—seeing as it’s in the middle of nowhere, on the way to nowhere in particular. Most of us wouldn’t even be here if not for the mines.”

She gestured at the other patrons in the tavern. “If you don’t see who you’re looking for, they’re not here, stranger.”

The man looked around to keep up appearances and then nodded slowly. “I’d still like that drink if it’s all the same to you.”

The bartender shrugged and turned to select one of the bottles from the shelf behind her. She poured the dark amber liquid into a glass and slid it across the bar. It stopped in front of the man. “Keep your money—the first round is on the house,” she told the traveler. “You can pay for the second, but don’t think of trying to buy information again. I don’t sell that here.”

She slung the towel over her shoulder again and added, “Out here, asking questions and being nosy is a good way to die, stranger.” She regarded him curiously. “You must not be familiar with places like these if you didn’t know that.”

The man let out a short bark of laughter as he took back the bill that he’d placed upon the bar top. “And here I thought you just told me not to be nosy.”

The bartender grinned back at him easily. “That’s true for strangers,” she clarified. “But for locals such as myself, questions are good. They let you know who you can trust and who you need to keep an eye on. Questions keep you alive.”

“Good advice to live by,” the traveler lifted his glass in a salute to the bartender before taking a sip.

The bartender shrugged again and turned her attention away from the traveler, beginning to wipe down the bar with the towel.

The traveler studied her for a moment with a careful eye. She stood a little shorter than him. She wore coveralls and a long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves pushed past her elbows. Her form was slender; her skin was darkened by the sun, but it was hard to determine her age. Her hair was auburn and short. The traveler supposed she was in her mid-thirties. She could be considered beautiful by most, but the traveler wasn’t concerned with such things.

He noted without much surprise that she had a gun holstered by her left hip, buckled on a gun belt. He wouldn’t doubt a loaded rifle rested on a shelf under the bar as well. Questions may well have kept her alive, but the weapons were the other factor, no doubt.

“This person you’re looking for…” the bartender spoke up again. “Why did you come looking for them all the way out here?”

The traveler paused with his glass halfway to his lips. He set down the drink before answering her. “You said it—Andone is as far from the rest of civilized society as a town can get. This sort of place attracts the sort of person I’m looking for.” His gaze wandered over to the men seated around the table playing cards. “And I do believe I’ve found him,” he finished grimly before taking a sip from his drink.

The bartender followed his gaze and then looked at him warily. The traveler noticed her hand drift closer toward her gun. “You the Law?” she asked quietly in an undertone that would not carry to the other patrons in the bar.

The traveler met her gaze levelly. Cold, pale-blue eyes met a worried set of hazel. “Sometimes.”

The bartender glanced around nonchalantly at her other patrons. They seemed to be occupied by their conver-sations, games, and drinks. The bartender continued wiping down the bar and didn’t look up as she murmured under her breath, “If you’re here as a Lawman, then you really are a fool. The Law has left Andone to fend for itself—for years now. They tried having a presence here once. A Lawman like you came riding into town, flashing his gun and badge like they meant something. They did—just not what he expected. All they meant for him was a death sentence.”

She looked up at the traveler and continued in a low voice, “Those two men in the corner? Murderers, the both of them. Dangerous men, from what I hear. They came into town a few days ago. I hope they leave soon. And the fellows playing cards—that’s Jake Collins and his gang if they’re who they claimed to be. You hear what I’m saying, stranger?”

The traveler nodded once, but other than that, he didn’t appear fazed by her words of warning. If anything, strangely enough, he looked satisfied. The information was good. He swirled his whiskey glass in one hand, then downed its contents. The bartender looked startled as he stood.

“Thanks for the drink,” was all he said before turning away from the bar.

She figured the stranger was leaving with his tail tucked between his legs, suitably chastened by her warning, deciding to leave with a little less pride but still able to leave with his life. All things considered, not a bad trade. For some men.

The traveler ambled over to the table of men playing cards. As the bartender watched with growing horror, it dawned on her that he moved slowly, but his eyes were alert. He didn’t so much amble as he did prowl. She was struck with the sudden image in her mind of a wolf hunting its prey—moments before striking.

A chill went down her spine and she froze in place. She was good at reading people normally, sizing them up—she had to be good at it to survive in such a Lawless place like Andone—but she had read the stranger all wrong. He was dangerous, through and through. Maybe as dangerous as some of the rest of her patrons. Instinctively, she rested her hand on the butt of her gun and kept a careful eye on what was about to unfold. She sensed a storm brewing and wondered if she was the only other person in the room who could feel it coming.

The men seated around the table playing cards looked up at the traveler’s approach. Without any sign of hesitation, the traveler dragged a chair from a nearby table and sat down next to them. The traveler smiled warmly at them, but his eyes were cold. He rested his one hand on the table; the bartender noticed his other hand was still hidden under his ragged cloak.

One of the men seated there scowled fiercely. The traveler recognized this man. He knew his face. The man scratched the stubble forming on his face before grunting out, “Private game, stranger. Best make yourself scarce if you know what’s good for you.”

 “No matter. I’m not here to play cards.”

At the traveler’s words, the game at the table came to a sudden halt. Something in his tone gave them a warning. Or perhaps they had always known. Perhaps they too had been waiting for the right moment to strike. Whatever it was, a hand twitched toward a holster—

The tavern exploded in sound and motion and chaos. The bartender watched it all. If she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she wouldn’t believe it had happened in the way it did.

As the men seated around the table began reaching for their weapons, the traveler sprang into action. Rising to his feet, he overturned the table with one hand, scattering piles of chips, cards, and bills of paper money in all directions. Then the traveler’s other hand was up, out from beneath his ragged cloak. In it, he held a gun.

The men seated at the table scrambled backward, several falling out of their chairs in their haste. Before they could react any further, the traveler fired three shots in quick succession. BANG. BANG. BANG.

Three men fell dead, never to rise again. As one of the men began to draw his gun from its holster, the traveler stepped toward him. He lashed out, kicking the man’s hand away from his holster, and then with a vice-like grip of iron, he grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt. With a grunt, he pulled the unfortunate gang member in front of him as a shield right as the other two men fired their weapons at him.

The bullets found their marks—just not in the traveler. From behind the now slumping form of a dead man, the traveler fired his gun once, dropping another of the card players. He stepped out from behind the corpse he held, letting it fall to the ground, and lifted his gun once more. He fired, hitting the final card player in the shoulder. That was deliberate. The man let out a yelp and clutched his shoulder as he fell backward.

Smoke rose from the barrel of the traveler’s gun, still raised. He turned slightly—but no one in the tavern made any movement whatsoever. It was as if they were frozen, watching this terrible drama unfold. All was silent. All was still.

Then, a faint coughing gasp came from the man on the floor, breaking the silence. The traveler glanced warily at the other patrons once more and then stepped over the fallen bodies of “The Jake Collins Gang” around the table. The man himself, Jake Collins, was reaching for his gun, fallen from his grasp when he hit the floor. The traveler put his foot on the man’s gun and kicked it out of his reach. Collins clutched at his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers. His teeth were clenched in pain, and he glared at the traveler with sheer malevolence.

The traveler met eyes with him while he emptied five of the six chambers of his gun. Spent casings fell with a light clatter to the hardwood floor. The traveler reloaded the gun, taking the bullets from beneath the folds of his tattered cloak.

“You’re a hard man to find, Jake Collins. You know that?” The traveler’s raspy voice was quiet, but it rang out loudly in the silent tavern. “I missed you in Ellisgrove—a day too late by my reckoning. From there, your trail almost went cold. Smart of you to come out this way—no presence of the Law; no one to hold you accountable for your crimes.”

The traveler shook his head grimly. “Only mistake you made was the one you could have avoided, and none of this would have happened.”

Collins’ eyes were filled with rage. “What mistake was that?” the man spat.

The traveler shrugged unconcernedly. Then, he placed his booted foot on the man’s injured shoulder, eliciting a pained howl. “Oh, I’ll tell you—I was just getting to that part.”

He pulled back the hammer of his pistol with a click and leaned in close. His foot still rested on Collin’s shoulder, keeping him pinned to the ground. He placed the barrel of the gun square against the man’s chest and made eye contact with him.

“You robbed a bank in Ellisgrove with your gang several weeks ago. That’s not why I’m here. I’m here because you killed a young woman during your getaway. Her name was Liza Harper.”

The traveler’s eyes were ice. “See, I normally don’t bother with scum like you. Low-level criminal trash like you isn’t worth my time or attention to track down. I hunt real monsters. I leave filth like you to other Lawmen. But she was the daughter of a friend of mine. That was your mistake. She was family.”

Collins saw something in the traveler’s eyes, a warning of what was to follow. His own eyes widened with fear and desperation. “Wait, just wait a minute, wait—”

BANG. The final gunshot split through the silence, tearing it in two. The fear left Collins’ eyes along with the light.

The traveler rose to his feet and looked around the bar with a wearied resignation in his eyes. “I’m not here for anyone else,” he said quietly. “Let me be, and we’ll have no trouble between us.”

No one in the tavern moved.

The traveler nodded once, satisfied. He stowed his gun in its holster again, underneath the folds of his ragged cloak. Stepping away from the bodies, he wandered over to the bar. The bartender still stood frozen in shock. The traveler placed the same bill on the bar top that he had placed there before.

“I’ll have another whiskey,” the traveler told the woman. “The rest should cover the damages to your fine establishment—for which I apologize.”

Numbly, the bartender poured him another whiskey. She pocketed his money mutely. The traveler nodded in thanks and raised his glass toward her. He threw back his drink and overturned the glass on the bar top, empty. Then, the traveler tipped his hat in the bartender’s direction and turned for the door.

Everyone in the tavern watched him go. The traveler felt eyes follow him warily. Before he left, one of the men at the table in the corner spoke up. He didn’t look up from sharpening his knife, but he called out to the traveler all the same.

“I was sorry to hear about John’s little girl. Are we even now, Silas?”

The traveler paused in the doorway. He didn’t turn to look in the other man’s direction. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re even now, Thomas. Make sure I don’t see you again.”

The other man just bared his teeth in a feral grin and shrugged unconcernedly. They would see each other again. Both men knew it. There was blood between them. Blood that had been spilled, and blood that would undoubtedly be spilled again. Just not today. The traveler didn’t wait to hear his response—if he even had any. He stepped out of The Fiery Stallion into the darkness and the empty streets of the mining town of Andone. The sun had fully set. The traveler sighed heavily. Like a shadow, he slipped away into the night, heading in the direction he’d first come. He’d done what he came to do. All that remained was the long journey home.

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